Is it a Wonderful Life?

Written by William Shepard, Published on 1/27/2009

It was the mystery of the year. Or rather, it would have been -- if old James Cartright had the sense to die on a slow news day. But he passed away on Christmas Day, and our local feel-good newspaper had already planned enough cute kid and Santa stories to shove old Miser Cartright’s death onto page four. He wouldn’t have liked that.

What he liked was running the town. Some say, ruining it. Remember the movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life” -- well, this town is what Bedford Falls would have been like if Miser Potter had run it. Local wits even said “Old Miser Cartright has been murdering Christmas for years -- serves him right to get murdered then!”

I draw the line at that. A murder is a murder. But was it murder – or suicide? We weren’t making much progress, the chief and me, in solving it. Even old Miser Cartright deserved better than that! So we sat in the chief’s office, and reviewed what we had (which wasn’t much).

He had died from an overdose of his heart medicine. We found out that his eyesight was bad, and that he had been given a new prescription. He had taken three times what Dr. Gilchrest had prescribed. He had a housekeeper, Moira Laurie, who’d been with him for years. She was visiting kinfolk on the other side of the county Christmas Day, when the body was discovered.

I bet you’re wondering: Why did we think it was murder? Call it a sixth sense. But we weren’t sure. Again, something just didn’t sit right about the case. And aside from his heart pills, Miser Cartright wasn’t in bad shape. He would never have made the Senior Olympics, but he took care of himself pretty well, and everyone around here thought that his meanness would keep him going for years to come.

Since we were treating it as a murder case, we got to see an advance look at his will. His money had been left to a remote cousin, Shannon Cartright, whom nobody knew. She wasn’t from around here. More surprising was the fact that he cut his son off without a cent.

The chief was increasingly desperate. We had been over the Cartright Mansion again and again. Perhaps it was time to call it quits? I told him about the only thing I hadn’t checked was Cartright’s computer. The chief was startled that Cartright had a computer at all. That was unusual, and what was unusual sometimes furnished clues, in his experience. I went back to the Cartright Mansion, went into the study, and got right on it. It helped focus my attention that Miser Cartright had died sitting in that leather chair facing the computer.

We had his online address from the numerous emails that he sent the local paper. His writing style was distinctive and selfish. If I could crack his password, perhaps I could find something. Hours went by. Then something occurred to me. Could it really be possible that the old goat had a sense of humor?

I typed in “BedfordFalls,” and was in! I didn’t find much. Just copies of his emails and occasional letters back from the newspapers. But there was one interesting entry, titled “Holiday Letter.” I punched in Document Properties, and saw that he had worked on it for several hours, over the space of six different revisions. I wondered if someone more computer-savvy could punch up the changes that were made with each revision. I certainly couldn’t. But I was fascinated by what I read.

The holiday letter was addressed to his son. I can’t do better than give you the actual letter that Miser Cartright wrote, so here it is:

Dear Jonathan:

I know we haven’t seen eye to eye for many years, but I think it’s time to let bygones be bygones. It is the Christmas season, after all.

And they keep playing that old movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Well, I’ve got to admit, it has had an effect on this old sinner. I’ve changed my will. I had the idea when I called my cousin, Shannon, and found that she had passed on six months ago. So much for keeping in touch! Since I had left everything to her, that makes the old will obsolete anyway. Time for a new one.

Besides, changing the will got me to thinking: Why should I wait until I die to give things away? I’m donating money to our hospital, so that finally it will be an up-to-date facility that the town can use with pride. I’m tired of our smart and promising young people going somewhere else because they say there aren’t any opportunities here. Maybe more will stay now. I’ve talked with Dr. Gilchrest, and he is delighted to get started on this project right away! Do you really think they will call it the James Cartright Hospital?

But, back to the will. You will now be getting the house and a trust fund to keep it up. I know your opinion of this place. Go ahead and sell it if you want, but if you do sell it, make sure that you provide for Moira, my housekeeper. How she put up with me for all these years is beyond me. I’ve just given her a few days off, so that she can go visit those relatives she is always talking about.

I wish you well and regret our years of silence. For the first time, I feel ready to live a good life – a wonderful life!

Your loving father,

The letter was unsigned, and the last entry was made on Christmas Eve.

“This certainly changes things,” the chief said. “Well, maybe. We’ve still got some questions to ask.”

“Sure, go ahead. It’s your case now.”

First, I talked with Jonathan Cartright. He was plainly uncomfortable, and feeling guilty about his father’s death. “No, he hadn’t told me about the change in his will, and I haven’t seen him in months. I had a call from Dr. Gilchrest, who told me about the new prescription, which was much stronger than his previous heart medicine. Maybe if I had stopped by, I could have helped with that prescription. I meant to. I would have, had I known that he had given Moira the time off -- she was always the one who got his prescription for him.”

Moira was still devastated by the news. “It’s so nice of him to have made provision for me,” she said. “Now this town will finally realize what a fine man he was.

Did I think the new wishes would be respected? I’m not a lawyer, but I do know this town. The probate judge, like everybody else, had been appointed by Cartright’s help, behind the scenes. I thought that there was a good chance that the new wishes would be respected.

And I also thought the chief would be glad to bring a callous murderer to justice.